Mémoire
by MiiKirin
Summary: Multichapter AU. She reappeared on an island during the Great War, and now they must find her. [KagomeXInuyasha, KikyouXSesshoumaru] In Process of Revision


Une – Cicatric (Scar)

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**Author's Note:** First chapter revised! While editing this, I realized that in the course of the past four years of haitus, my style has drastically changed. So to be honest, there wasn't much I can do other than simple transitions and mechanics. I hope what ever improvements I attempted are pleasing, though. Enjoy. 

Also, this is is not my anime; it all belongs to Rumiko Takahashi. This fic will stem well over twenty chapters and I have no intent of thinking up creative ways to word disclaimers for every single chapter. Thus, this one applies for the entire fic. Thank you very much. Please don't sue me.

And on with the show!

-Jazzy

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The old cement ground was cracking; sprigs of grass protruded valiantly through these crevasses, marking its victory with a delicate flag. The color of the sky reflected the color of the ground as it lit up the gray cement with a deep color of peach. There were bird twitters in the distance, complementing the chorusing church bells as sunlight sprinkled over the sleeping ground, nudging it to awaken. 

In the midst of the morning merriment, a young girl with a broom in her hand carefully made her way into the courtyard of St. Madeleine's Catholic Church. She strode to the center of the vast gray landscape and reached up to brush a lock of stray hair back behind her ear, the ivory pallor of her skin contrasted against her ebony tresses. As she did so, a faint white scar revealed itself at her temple. It had the appearance of what must have once been a gruesome gash, though she could no longer feel the pain nor remember its cause and origin. Soon, the rhythmic sound of broom-strokes rose to accompany the birds and bells.

Sister Margot had once told her that she should be grateful for this loss of memory. "The past is only what we choose to remember," she had said, brushing the girl's disheveled layers of hair, "and no past means no regrets."

And that was enough for her. For a while, that is, until pieces of her began to scream out in protest. Somehow she knew that something wasn't right. She was too different here her features and actions too startling in contrast with the fairness of the island, and its occupants made sure to remind her of such. _Different, _they saw in her, and that was enough to alienate her. The head nuns of the school were the only reasons why she was tolerated at all. They were kind hearted, and whatever brims of generosity kindness did not reach, the fear of judgment did.

About a year ago she had washed ashore like seagrass on this quiet little island off the coast of France and, like seagrass, she would have died by sunrise had the nuns not given her refuge. _Elodie_, they named her, a pretty name that meant nothing. But different as she was, she knew what gratefulness was, just as she knew the debt she owed to these people for saving her life. Silently, she began to take up chores here and there, helping in any way she could, piecing the days together and marking time with work. That was how she fit in, in her own subtle way, by becoming invisible, and that was just as well.

* * *

It was afternoon now; sunlight trickled down the smooth panes of the walls and danced onto the grand, wooden floor. Elodie took her place behind Sister Margot for afternoon confessions. It was tradition and training for the girls at the school to accompany a head Sister during this process, and Elodie had found her preferred mentor in Sister Margot. She found these sessions to be queer, only a period of conversation in a cramped room. It boggled her as to why people would lay out their woes to those they hardly knew; people who, in fact, they could not even see during the process of conversation. The sisters were keen on it, though, and kept up this ritual daily, rain or snow. The habitants of the island seemed to be keen on the tradition as well, for there seemed to be an ever-present trickle of people edging their way into the small wooden booth. 

The soft murmuring of French continued, accompanied occasionally by Sister Margot's gentle replies. Elodie quite liked this part of the day; the continuous, yet barely audible conversations that filled the room gave it a soft blanket of reassurance. She habitually fidgeted with the silver ring around her thumb, loosening and tightening it, occasionally rubbing at the damp ring mark impressed upon the skin beneath the metal.

They had told her that she had been found with this ring when she had washed ashore, and it was perhaps the ring that had saved her. She had blended well in the course sands of the beach: her hair, like seaweed, tumbled wildly, crusting over with salt and bits of oceanic residue; her clothes tattered and clung pitifully, if at all, to her body. It was only the ring that shone brilliantly in the sun, catching the eyes of passer-bys and, amongst them, rescuers. Now, it was the only memento she had that carried with it her forgotten past, and the only thing that provided a clue to her identity. Inside the ring was carved an etching she could not understand. It looked like a word, or perhaps more like a simplistic drawing, certainly nothing she had been taught to read. Another language, perhaps, and should she dare to hope, a language that belonged to her, inaccessible, but reassuringly there.

The man concluded his tearful confession with a loud and dirty noise, possibly originating from the wiping of his nose against his sleeves. _Merci, _he whispered hoarsely to Sister Margot, a voice on the other side of the veil, and stood wearily to leave. His footsteps weighed unevenly on the wooden floor as he walked away.

After the man had gone, Sister Margot turned to her.

"Are you happy here?" she asked, her wrinkles looked smooth in the dim light.

Elodie inclined her head slightly, unable to disagree.

Sister Margot reached out to pull her closer.

"Poor child..." she muttered as she patted Elodie's hair in a motherly fashion, "such strange features."

Elodie felt Sister Margot's hand gently tip her chin away from the ground to meet her eye.

"Why won't you speak?" Sister Margot asked, after a pause.

There was no answer she could give. Elodie looked down again in apology.

"Ah," said Sister Margot as she stood up from the plain wooden stool, pulling Elodie out of the dark booth with her. The sunlight edged onto their skin and clothes, reflecting a soft light from the plain, peach dresses. They walked across the altar to the side door that led to the courtyard. Once outside, Sister Margot turned to her again.

"One day you will have it all back again," she assured, "your voice, your memories, yourself. When this war is over, everything will be back to normal."

She sighed and looked up to the stained glass window before continuing, more to herself than to her, "With God's help, everything will be well."

There was doubt in her voice, but it had to be enough.

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end. 


End file.
